


Selfish Hope

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Mild Language, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27343978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: Battered and bruised after a liaison gone wrong, Sylvain seeks out the one person who makes him feel more human and less…whatever he is.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58





	Selfish Hope

As Sylvain walked the length of the dormitory corridor from his room towards the stairs, a single thought echoed in his head.

_Selfish._

It grew louder as he stopped in front of Ingrid’s door. It was late. She probably didn’t want to be disturbed, especially by him, looking like this. But there wasn’t much he could do to fix his appearance. At this point, his dashing good looks were moot, thanks to a swollen nose, a split lower lip, the dried blood across his cheek. 

_So selfish._

It wasn’t his most brilliant idea. In fact, it was in direct contradiction of every single one of his well-practiced, tactical manoeuvres. There was a high measure of risk, an unbearable price for failure. But tonight, he wanted just one thing. And in this state, with a dash of liquid courage, and perhaps the senses literally knocked out of him, he was fool enough to indulge.

_So fucking selfish._

He knocked.

When the door opened, Sylvain was treated to a glimpse of sleepy Ingrid, her hair mused from the pillow, a robe messily wrapped around her. His heart thudded right before her eyes reached his face, and then…

“Sylvain!”

Now she was wide awake. She pulled him into her room and slammed the door, herded him to the bed and pushed him down to sit among the twisted blankets. Catching himself with his free hand, Sylvain noticed the residual heat on the sheets. She really had been asleep. A little worm of guilt nibbled at him.

Ingrid leaned over and tilted his chin up with her fingers. She turned his face towards the light cast by the oil lantern on the desk, frowning. Heedless of the way her robe hung open, revealing her loose, blue sleeping shirt. Not that Sylvain could see anything through the thick, woollen fabric. No frilly follies for Ingrid.

That was reassuring, in its own way.

“What happened?” Ingrid asked. “Were you on patrol? Imperial soldiers?”

Sylvain smiled, though it was a little uncomfortable to do so.

“Nothing so dramatic,” he said.

Ingrid dropped her hand from his face. She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before catching the edges of her robe in her hands and wrapping it around herself. She kept her arms crossed over her waist as she straightened.

“Goddess,” she said. “You’ve been drinking. I can smell it.”

“Just a little bit,” Sylvain shrugged.

Ingrid groaned and marched over to the cupboards under the window.

“I can’t believe you,” she said, yanking one of the doors open and retrieving a basket, one that Sylvain was familiar with, containing all manner of bandages, ointments and vulneraries. “I told you, I won’t deal with the fallout of your skirt chasing anymore. Do you think I have time to deal with these escapades, along with everything else? We’re fighting a war!”

With the basket balanced on her hip, Ingrid dragged the desk chair over the bed. She moved the oil lantern onto the seat and twisted it, so the maximum amount of light was cast over the spot where Sylvain sat.

“I don’t understand how you have the energy for these...additional affairs,” she said. “Especially when this is the inevitable outcome. There’s a fine line between charm and idiocy, you know, and currently you’re keeping a very precarious balance.”

She paused and glared at him. Unable to resist, Sylvain asked, “So which aspect am I tipping t’wards?”

Ingrid pressed her lips into a thin line as she dropped down beside him. She put the basket on the bed before selecting a bottle of rubbing alcohol from within it. Sylvain almost flinched when she twisted the lid open, noting the force behind the action and imagining how it would feel applied to him. He knew that’s what she meant by such a display. Ingrid was a very deliberate person.

“You should be at the infirmary,” she said, holding a clean, cotton cloth, also from the basket, over the bottle’s mouth and tipping it upside down.

“You were closer,” Sylvain said.

Ingrid shook her head and righted the bottle. She put it on the chair next to the lantern before she turned to face him, lifting one leg onto the bed so the length of her calf pressed against his thigh.

“Hold still,” she said, cupping his cheek and raising the alcohol-soaked cloth.

For all that she could be prickly, Ingrid had the gentlest touch of anyone Sylvain knew. Moreover, her palm was warm and soft against his skin. He had to resist melting into it. He could stay like this all night, her hands on him, if only—

The alcohol stung his lip and he recoiled. Ingrid’s hand fell against his chest, over his heart, as though to comfort.

“I’m sorry,” she said, all traces of scolding and irritation gone.

Sylvain forced a laugh.

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Like you’ve been saying, it’s my fault.”

Ingrid bit her lip as she raised the cloth to his mouth once more. This time Sylvain held still and let her tend to him, first his split lip, then the grazes on his cheek. She frowned the whole time. She looked worried. Which broke him. This was what he’d wanted, right?

Right. Ingrid was close enough that he could see the faint ring of grey at the edge of her irises. Her fingers were still sprawled across his chest, lightly enough that they didn’t irritate his other, hidden injuries, firmly enough to send a rush through his system. Her concentration was so intense that he could almost— _almost_ —pretend that her concern was not of the usual Ingrid variety, but specific to him. Special. Precious.

“So what was it this time?” she asked suddenly, snatching Sylvain from his reverie. She sat back and met his gaze. “Or rather, who?”

He looked away.

“Just some woman,” he said. “What does it matter?”

Ingrid’s fingers bunched in his shirt, prodding hard against his bruised flesh in the process. Once again unprepared for the sharp burn, Sylvain winced.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid gasped, snatching both hands away.

“I’m fine,” he said mechanically, an answer that had sat comfortably on his tongue, ready and waiting, since he was six years old. It rarely failed him.

But Ingrid dropped the cloth and grabbed the collar of his shirt. Against his protests and attempts to push her away, she tugged it away from his body and brazenly peered underneath.

“Sylvain!” she repeated, angry this time. Whether at him or the people who’d attacked him, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“I’m fine.”

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and moved her hand away. She obediently let go. For a moment he thought it was over; the brief moment before Ingrid spoke.

“Take it off.”

Goddess. This was _not_ supposed to happen. Sylvain clutched his shirt close to his neck, feigning shock.

“Ingrid, I’m very flattered, but…” he began.

“Take off your shirt.”

Ingrid’s tone left no room for argument. Still, Sylvain hesitated. According to his magnificently flawed plan, Ingrid cleaned up his face before he escaped back to his room to deal with the rest of his injuries alone. He got the comfort from her presence, she remained blissfully ignorant.

_Selfish._

Wanting to be near her was one thing. Her seeing how badly he had been beaten was another.

_So selfish._

She had told him that she didn’t want anything to do with this, with his behaviour. With his true, messed up self.

_So fucking selfish._

“Look,” Sylvain said, “I’m fine. It was three against one, so I…”

“Three against one?”

Wrong thing to say. He drew in a breath before trying again.

“Listen, I…”

“Please.”

Sylvain looked up. Ingrid met his faze with a beautiful, heartbreaking expression, the one with her sorrow reflected in her eyes. The one he was powerless against, especially when it was his fault it appeared.

“Please,” Ingrid said. “Let me help you.”

Sylvain sighed and looked away from her as he lifted his shirt over his head. He didn’t want to witness her reaction. He knew there was ample evidence he’d be black and blue in the morning. He’d seen it, when he’d gone to his room and changed out of his torn shirt, before crawling down the hall in search of her. The thugs hadn’t been the most amiable of fellows, but they had been enthusiastic.

There was a long, agonizing moment of silence. Sylvain wished Ingrid would get on with it, pick one of her ointments, deal with the marks, whatever she wanted, so he could retreat to his room in shame.

But she didn’t. Instead, she bounced off the bed, knocking the chair in the process. The lantern shifted on the seat, forcing her to steady it.

“I’m getting a healer,” she said.

“No, Ing—”

Sylvain knocked the chair again as he lunged to catch Ingrid’s wrist.

This time, the lantern fell. There was a clatter as it hit the floor, then a rush of air as the carpet caught fire. Ingrid gasped and jumped backwards, while Sylvain, moving on instinct, grabbed one of the blankets from the bed. He spread it between his hands and threw himself over the fire, depriving it of air.

The room went dark.

Sylvain closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow down. All he could hear was Ingrid, her panicked gasps for breath. He had frightened her. And no wonder. Liquid courage? Any more of it and he probably wouldn’t have been capable of putting out the flames. Lost sense? He was a nuisance to her with it intact, so why would he be less so without it?

“You promised me,” Ingrid said suddenly, her voice seeming louder in the dark.

Sylvain opened his eyes. The words stung in the worst possible way. They stung because they were likely, almost definitely, true. Ingrid, unlike him, didn’t lie. And if he had broken a promise to her, he deserved whatever was coming to him.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t be so nonchalant about getting hurt or killed,” she continued. “So what is this? You’re hurt. Let me get a healer.”

Ah. That one. Sylvain sat back on his heels and turned his head in the direction of her voice.

“This isn’t nonchalance,” he said. “It’s bad luck.”

“Three on one? Please, Sylvain. That’s reckless even for you.”

“She didn’t tell me she already had a lover. Or that her lover had friends. I wouldn’t have pursued her if I’d known.”

Ingrid laughed. “Really?”

He curled his fingers into fists where they rested on his knees. He shouldn’t be surprised at her reaction. As recently as last week she had dismissed his honesty, rejecting his confession that he depended completely upon her.

“It’s the truth,” he said quietly.

“Then why?” Ingrid demanded. “Why do you do this to yourself? Chase after women who don’t care about you?”

Would she believe him? Or would she spurn him, as she had so many times before, albeit unconsciously? Sylvain didn’t know if he could live with the consequences of either option.

“Do you have any candles?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“Don’t change the subject!”

Sylvain ignored her. Thankful that all the dormitory rooms were arranged in the same way, he crossed to the desk and fumbled around it. Behind him, she kept talking.

“Please, Sylvain, what’s really going on?”

It didn’t take him long to find a candle. Judging from its height, it was used. But it would do for now.

“I hate seeing you like this. I hate you being hurt. I hate that you seem to think you’re not…”

With a simple fire spell, the candle flared, and silence fell.

Sylvain turned to find Ingrid standing at the foot of the bed. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so angry, so frustrated. Tears sparkled on her lashes and cheeks. Her brow was furrowed. At her sides, her fists were clenched, her knuckles white, as though that simple action was the only thing preventing her fury from bursting into the room and consuming it. He’d done that.

He averted his eyes.

The blanket lay haphazard on the floor, twisted from when he’d walked over it. Sylvain crouched down and pushed it aside. He was surprised to see the bottle of rubbing alcohol below, its contents spilled across an otherwise unharmed part of the floor. As for the damage from the fire, the charred section of carpet was smaller, the oil lantern less blackened and damaged, than he’d expected. In the moment, it had all seemed much bigger.

He reached for the lantern.

“Don’t.”

At Ingrid’s voice, he withdrew his hand and forced himself to meet her gaze.

“I’ll just…” he began.

“Go,” Ingrid said, spinning towards the wall, her hand swiping across her face.

Sylvain held still for a moment, then nodded. He grabbed his shirt from the bed as he stood, pulled it over his head as he moved towards the door.

“Wait.”

With his hand resting on the door handle, Sylvain stopped. He glanced over his shoulder to see Ingrid take a jar from the basket. She crossed to him, grabbed his wrist and shoved it against his palm. A bruise ointment.

Sylvain wrapped his fingers around the jar and smiled at her.

“Don’t worry about me anymore, okay?” he said, turning back to the door.

But before he could open it, arms wrapped around him, hugging him from behind.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ingrid whispered.

Sylvain let his eyes slip closed as Ingrid nuzzled her head against his back. He let himself pretend, just for a minute, that this hug was different to the countless others he’d received from her.

_Selfish._

He could almost feel it. If he concentrated hard enough, he would be able to fool himself into thinking his deepest desires were true.

_So selfish._

“Seriously, Ing, I’m fine,” Sylvain said. “It’s just a couple of bruises.”

“A couple of bruises on you,” she replied.

“Why should the person they’re on make a difference?”

Ingrid let him go. “Don’t they?”

Sylvain turned. Once they were facing each other, Ingrid tilted her head back to look at him. Her vivid, emerald eyes, her pink lips, drew him in. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her body against his, kiss her senseless. Did she want that too? Did he dare to find out?

Recklessly, Sylvain lowered his head towards her. His heart stuttered when she raised herself up on her toes, closed her eyes.

“No,” Sylvain breathed. “Not really.”

Ingrid opened her eyes. And he knew that he imagined the disappointment in them. It was his mind playing tricks, projecting his own feelings onto her. It was just him wanting her to feel like her world was imploding. Because if she felt that way, he might yet have a chance. And if he didn’t indulge in hopeless hope, what reason was there to keep living?

“Good night, Ingrid,” he said.

With that, he escaped into the corridor. Enough. That was enough selfishness for one day.


End file.
